I went to visit my grandparents on Sunday. They filled me with deep-fried goodness. French fries, onion rings, fried zucchini, fried mushrooms. On top of that, sadly un-fried pumpkin pie. I wanted to die. My body is not meant for such consumption. I am the kind of girl who would be extremely content eating sprouts and Pink Lady apples for the rest of her life. I should have been rolled home down the Pennsylvania turnpike. I was exceptionally full, and in fact still couldn’t eat yesterday. Therefore, there was no cooking in my house. Not a thing. Therefore I have no recipes, except for the recipe of self-destruction, which I am newly well-acquainted with and reads something like:
veggie burger + cheese + onions + mayo + ketchup + french fries + onion rings + fried zucchini + fried mushrooms + hot peppers + chunk of garlic + can of Coke (they don’t believe in drinking water, I don’t think) + pumpkin pie = stomach-clutching burping disgusting illness.
In book news, I finished Love Medicine (need I tell you it was great?) and started the Beet Queen (which, by the way, should probably be my middle name). I woke up at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning and tore through Adrian Tomine’s Scrapbooks, which I keep reminding myself to buy because it’s one of those “need to own” books.
I hardly ever ever ever talk about movies, but last night big brother and I went to see Wendy & Lucy and I felt like someone punched me in the stomach with a sadness punch. I can’t watch movies that make me this anxious. Yes, it was pretty, and yes, Michelle Williams is pretty much a babe and I think I’m going to have that hairstyle accidentally in about two days and yes movies about dogfriends break my heart, but oh my god, did I ever need a hug after it. Old Joy didn’t do this to me. I resent this lingering sadness feeling. Needin’ a hug. Needin’ a hug.